Revenge of the Writters
by DWH
Summary: Revan recieves the script for KOTOR 3, and her worst fears are confirmed: that her worst fears aren't nearly as bad as reality...


**Title: ** Knights of the Old Republic III: Revenge of the Writting Team

**Author:** DWH

**Genre:** Humour

**Characters:** Revan, HK-47

**Timeframe**: post-KOTOR 2

**Summary: **The script for KOTOR 3 has come out, and Revan's worst fears are confirmed… that her worst fears don't even come _close_ to being as bad as reality.

**Notes:** Mandalore's Dueling Circle challenge #9: Fear!

Revan stood in her spacious apartment on Coruscant, viewing the sun setting beyond the cityscape. The day's mail still sat on the desk, she had been too lazy to check it earlier. "Lazy" really _had_ been the recent order of things, since she'd only had to make cameo appearances in the second _Knights of the Old Republic._ Some sort of gratitude that had been. Not that she minded the Exile, they were actually fairly good friends. However, after discovering her general cut from the second game, the script-writers had received a personal visit from HK-47 informing them that, being that it really was Revan's story, she wouldn't be left out again.

The writers seemed mostly cooperative, too.

Meandering over to the desk, she sorted through the stack of letters and packages that had been carelessly tossed on to it. After discarding various junk mail items, happily looking through lifeday cards from Carth, Mission, and T3-M4, and opening a package that contained a brand new set of armour, she spied a small envelope she had nearly missed. Opening it, it contained merely a datacard and a note.

_Ms. Reven:_

_Here is the script for Knights of the Old Republic III for your revue. Please look over it and return it probably._

_Sincerelly,_

The Writting Team 

She wrinkled her nose in slight disgust. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was the general abuse of words, whether they were misspelled or misused. However, the cover note was likely drafted by some flunkie in the office, not by the writers themselves.

Idly inserting the card into her datapad, she began to peruse the script. As she read, the expression on her face shifted from annoyance, to disgust, to outright shock. _If this were anything else,_ she mused, _I'd be laughing my head off… but this is the real script._ Shaking her head in an attempt to clear out her misgivings, she called into the next room. "HK-47, can you come in here a moment?"

"Apologetic statement: I would like to, Mister, but I am afraid I look ridiculous."

_Mister?_ "What's going on?"

"Answer: Why, I just got back from a meeting with the writting team, and they've done horrible things."

Revan's eyes narrowed. "HK, get in here."

She thought she could hear an electronic sigh. "Acquiescing statement: Very well, Mister."

HK-47 came shuffling through the door, and it was all Revan could do to keep herself from bursting out in gales of laughter. The assassin 'droid was enshrouded in a large black robe, and with the hood up she could only make out two orange lights for his eyes. "Humiliated statement: You see what they have done to me?"

"HK, why are you in those ridiculous robes?"

His photoreceptors seemed to glow red. "Irritated answer: It was not my choice, Mister. They have altered my programming to fit my role as an Assassin Druid in _Knights of the Old Republic III._"

Assassin… _Druid?_ "Does this have anything to do with your calling me Mister, in spite of the fact that you know full-well that I'm a girl?"

"Ashamed statement: Yes, the writters appear to be devoid of a spell-checker. And common sense. Hopeful request: May I kill them, Mister?"

_After reading this script, I just might let you._ "Never mind that, HK. What else did they program into you?"

"Answer: Well, they downloaded the story in its entirety to my memory core, as well as a database of planets and creatures involved in the production. Most of them are the same as before, but there does seem to be an excess of Canucks."

"You mean cannoks."

"Contrary statement: No, the database clearly says Canucks. Though why Canadians would eat indiscriminately is quite beyond my capacity to comprehend. Observation: This particular writting team lacks creativity as well as sense. Suggestion: A few well-placed thermal detonators into their headquarters…"

Revan cut him short. "No, we're not blowing them up. I should go in and talk to them. I mean, I'm the protagonist, I ought to have some sort of say in this."

"Correction: The script does not refer to you as the protagonist."

"Well, what _does_ it refer to me as?"

"Answer: It refers to you as the poltergeist, Mister. Quick clarification: Well, it is actually you in conjunction with the Axle."

It was all Revan could do to keep back her biting reply. This team of writers was clearly incompetent, and was probably in exchange for the fact that HK had been less than polite when he'd gone in to speak with them. Burying her face in her right hand, she shook her head and tried to think of what she could possibly do to rectify the situation. In the meantime, HK had been continuing his narrative on the storyline, which included visits to Dantoonie, Alderane, and Corrusant, as well as would-be familiar characters such as Bastilla and Zablar. Finally, Revan had about all she could take.

"That's quite enough, HK-47." She brushed her hair out of her face, and gathered her cloak. "I'm going to go pay the writing team a visit."

"Joyful query: Are we going to go terminate the useless meatloafs?"

_That's it, they're toast. _"No, you're staying here- I don't want them dead yet, and I don't want their programmers getting anywhere near you again. Nobody messes with the 'meatbag' references."

"Reluctant agreement: Very well, Mister. I shall await your return."

As Revan made her way to the writers' headquarters, she could only shake her head in disgust. The end of the galaxy was not about to come from any unknown Sith threat in the outer rim, it would be taken down infinitely faster by way of incompetent "writters" who couldn't write their way out of a wicker basket.

_This,_ she thought menacingly,_ is war._


End file.
